Over the Counter
by ordinary vamp
Summary: Bella has a crush on Deliboy. She promises herself she won't look over the counter and past the frozen cakes, towards the Deli department. AH, rated M for salamis and Danishes.
1. Over The Counter

**Over the Counter**

**Disclaimer: **I am in no way intending copyright infringement; I do not own the _Twilight Saga_.

**A/N:** There's a long-winded sappy author's note at the bottom as to why I posted this one shot. Basically: I've been a member of the fandom for four years today. So happy anniversary, guys! I am in fact, just cheesy enough to do this.

Many thanks to my beta and hero: jadedandboring; and to my prereaders: fanglanalang and Chrisska, my brain twin.

~:~:~:~

I feel my eyes pulling toward the right, past the frozen cakes and over the cracker-box tower.

But, I won't look to my right. I _won't_.

Because I think the people at the deli counter are kind of freaked out about my subtle, not so casual glances. There's a paradox for you.

But not really. There's nothing subtle about those looks.

"Hello, sir, how can I help you?" I ask the man standing at the counter. He's in front of the cheesecakes, looking at them with hungry eyes.

Maybe they're _too_ hungry. He could take with eating only a few of the mini cheesecakes in the next display, instead of the eight-inch coma-inducer.

"I'd like the assorted fruit cheesecake." I think he knows there's more glaze on that cake than any other one we offer here.

"Will that be all?" I ask, because I'm supposed to. I want to shove the cake at him and – try to – push him away. It's almost time to look towards the deli counter.

But, then I remember I'm not allowed to look anymore. My eyes are still following my old schedule; look once, for one minute, every ten. One scanning glance, pretend to check out customers, look for him, and then actually do my job.

"I'd like to write something on it. Can you?" he inquires, looking at me questioningly, as if I can't.

I can. I work in a bakery. I wield icing writers better than I do a pen.

"It would be on a piece of chocolate; is that okay?"

"Sure, sure. 'Happy Anniversary Bob and Margie.' Can you spell _anniversary_?"

I save my withering look for the cake. I think the strawberries dry out a little bit.

"Do I pay here, or up at the front?"

Jesus fucking Christ. "Up at the front." My cheeks hurt from the falsity in my smile.

"Hey," he says. The reason the deli crew stays away from me.

"Hi." My smile is genuine, and it still pains me. Maybe I just shouldn't do that. Smiling.

"We need to borrow your push broom." He's already moving to the back, dodging the cool rack full of buns. He's careful to move – he thinks they're hot.

"So long as you bring it back." There's a split second where I think I'm going to wink, and please, God, thank you, I don't, but then my eye twitches. I smile to cover up. It doesn't help.

"Sure," he mutters over his shoulder, already making his way to my right.

I try very hard to not look at his ass. I do, but in case he looks back, I pretend to look at the couple struggling with the bread slicer.

They've been in before. I've taught them before.

I miss the final view of his ass before he walks behind the exotic cheeses. Fuck.

~:~

I'm finished.

My badge slides through the punch clock once, twice. Still nothing happens. I casually clean the magnetic strip. I used it to scrape the royal icing off my chrome table.

This wouldn't be the first time the icing prevented me from punching out on time.

And as I slide it through again, I hear a person shuffle in behind me, forming a line. Another person comes in too.

"Bella, I think you've got the badge in the wrong way." Angela whispers from a couple people behind me.

I look at the card. The clip is broken; it dangles from a mangled red lanyard. 'Isabella', in formless capitals is stuck on the plain white side. The side that's facing the doors.

My name is supposed to face the mirror. A blush settles into my cheeks, but it's too dark for anyone to see. The area by the punch clock is eerily dim. The spotlight overhead flickers occasionally.

It's a fucking _Law and Order_ crime scene waiting to happen.

I hit the _punch out_ button. By the grace of God, I'm on time. Barely.

People at the back of the growing line will have to get the manager to punch them out. Oops.

I duck and make a quick getaway to the locker room. I follow the faded yellow lines, indicators for those with regular shoes to stick to.

I'm not worried; I spent the seventy-five dollars on the steel-toed, steel-plated, anti-slip-sole shoes. They're ugly and uncomfortable.

And seventy-five motherfucking dollars. I was reimbursed twenty-five. Fuckers.

I don't see Deliboy. I even peeked into the loading area, where the garbage compactor is.

My olfactory sense was ruined for naught.

I sigh as I scuffle past soda bottles.

~:~

I don't know what to do for dinner.

I ate something before I left for work, but damn't, I drudged up an appetite.

Or perhaps it was the cannoli I had to fill. Mascarpone and chocolate chip filling does something to me.

Options: There aren't many. I can settle for a doughnut and a large chocolate milk from the Dunkin' Donuts across from the hot pizza counter; pizza from the aforementioned counter, or the hot foods.

I think he's working tonight. Deliboy. Sometimes he mans the hot foods counter.

I'll walk by the counter. I usually do, when I want food. Or to gossip with Jessica, the Customer Service chick. She isn't a chick, not really. Jessica's in and around thirty years of age.

I don't plan on staying in this hellish place 'til I'm thirty.

I digress; she has the scoop on the entire store. She knows _everyone's_ dirty laundry. It's how I found out why my dickwad of a manager wasn't fired after telling off a customer. With toddlers, using some choice words.

He's dating the store manager's mother. What the hell? She's even uglier than the both dickwad's combined.

Grocery stores are filled with ugly people.

Except for Deliboy. The man beautifies this place.

I'm disgustingly infatuated. And hungry.

There's fresh pasta to my left, and to my right, I see a vast array of sandwich meats. Kielbasa, salami, fresh pepperoni…

There's an awkward thought process developing. _Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar._ I'm not sure if that's my superego defending me, or my id playing Devil's advocate.

Cigar, my ass, I decide. I'm thinking phallic objects… and phallus. Deliboy's phallus? _Now I am._ And then I'm thinking about the word _phallus_.

Deliboy isn't in tonight. Or he's just not working right now.

Maybe he's flirting with the big-titted Kate in the produce.

He does that. I've seen him. I've seen him mosey – but it's with purpose. His façade is weak to me – and push the doors to the Cut Fruit section.

No cameras, no pushy customers, no openness, no exposure. It's heart wrenchingly, enviously, private.

If I needed privacy, I'd have to wiggle into the wiggle-less freezer and numb myself.

I get a glazed cake doughnut dipped in chocolate. With a large chocolate milk.

He isn't in the break room.

~:~

There's so much bread to slice. It won't even fit outside. Not unless someone is okay with squished bread. But I slice anyway; fully knowing that tomorrow someone will bitch if it isn't. Namely Maria, the Mexican lady with the thickest accent I've ever heard. Actors in those telenovellas would have better English.

I think it's all an act. But that's just me.

She'll complain about something else I didn't do (or didn't do properly). It's how the whiny bitch works.

"Excuse me, miss? I'd like some help – I can't find the lemon tarts," he asks.

He knows where the lemon tarts are. I've shown them to him before; and I know other girls in the bakery have helped him find the damn things before. He grosses me – us – out, the stupid, gap-toothed man. His belly hangs out from under his shirt. It makes me want to vomit.

As it is, I gag.

I think he just likes to look at our asses. And I can't help but think: you disgusting fucker, we're jailbait. I shiver; I can't help it.

"There they are, sir." I sweep my arm towards the tarts in question, nestled in between brownies and chocolate cupcakes. I walk away after his mumbled thanks.

Ha! No response; nothing. He doesn't deserve one of my customary "good nights." A shiver rolls through me again.

I think I feel his eyes on me, their dull blue leaving dirty streaks on my baker's jacket. I don't look back, nervous to see if I'm right. I might not be.

God knows I have an overactive imagination.

I go back to slicing bread, trying to pick up my rhythm again. I have a half an hour before I'm officially finished, but I'm worried I won't be _finished_. Fuck. I hate leaving things left over.

I can see breadcrumbs fly through the air and settle in the tiniest crevice my stupid work shirt leaves open. They're in my bra. I'm positive I'll be shaking and rubbing my boobs before I get ready for bed.

But they're really itchy though, _now_. I'm tempted to do something right this second, rather than awkwardly use my forearm to brush up against my chest to relieve the pressure.

The stupid slicer is loud, and it never really hits me until I turn it off.

"Hey. I need the push broom." Deliboy!

Crumbs in my bra are forgotten.

"Er, sure thing." I jerk my head to where the broom is, my hands full of whole wheat bread. I don't know what makes me do the head jerk. He knows where the broom is kept. I know that he knows.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," I mumble. "Umm..."

He turns, leaning on the broom, looking even more scrumptious than the onion buns he lingers beside.

He looks expectantly; raises an eyebrow. He makes it look sexy. But when I do it, my stupid scar is exaggerated. I hate that scar.

"Yeah."

I blush. The fluorescent lights are better here. As in: every flaw is noticeable.

"I'll need it soon." He makes a move to bring it back, but I wave him away. "Just… make sure it's here before nine. Please?"

He does. Only he has some random chick bring it back.

~:~

I can't get the box. These shelves are freakishly large. Too large. Shit on the top is pretty much SOL until someone tall enough can reach it.

I'm not this person. Why? I'm standing on the stepping stool, with a broom in my hands, trying to move the stupid box. I've achieved nothing but a gaping hole in the bottom; the cardboard bent inward and ripped in a long line.

I heard plastic make a terrifying crack the first time I broke the box.

And the second. And the third. I'm pretty sure there are five unusable cookie containers now.

I stomp my foot on the stool. It's childish and accomplishes nothing, but damn if I don't feel even a little better.

Usually if I can't reach something, which I admit is most of the time, I get the breakout boy, Felix to get it. He doesn't even need the _stool_.

But I'm alone tonight. And the cookies need to be packed or my ass is going to be fucked. In the most unpleasant of ways.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I step off the stool, and put the broom away, tucking it in beside the bread crumb machine. The residual powder rubs against my arm, embedding itself with the tiny hairs there. Fuck. I'll be itchy forever.

I pass the olive and pasta/salad bar thing. The Kalamata olives are tempting in their oily sheen. I know for a fact they're popular. I see their aubergine pits in my assorted bun bins. It's disgusting and disconcerting, but it doesn't stop my craving for them.

I know what I'll be picking up once my shift is over.

Deliboy is working. Perfect. He's even taller than Felix. I swallow the sigh threatening to escape, and end up suffering a coughing fit. My cheeks, red enough from the exertion of my coughs, deepen. I'm positive.

"Edward." I test the word out slowly. It's the first time I say his name out loud. In public, at least.

"Yeah?" There's a brief gap that tell me he doesn't know my name. I ignore it and continue.

"There's a box on the top shelf. I can't get to it." He frowns for a moment. I hope and pray to God that he has a brain and gets what I'm inferring.

"Sure."

"Thanks," I smile. Relief settles in me.

We walk to the bakery side by side, in silence. It's definitely uncomfortable.

The standard issue black apron we both wear flutters with the movement of his legs. It's almost addicting to watch.

Almost. Until I nearly collide with a stand full of sourdough baguettes. Then I just focus on the linoleum under my feet.

He lets me go ahead of him.

I point to which box I need, wordlessly. He reaches up, his long arms reaching the package I want – he has a different one that I'm pretty sure I need.

The box is in my hands, removed from its high perch.

"Thanks," I repeat, for lack of anything better to say. So why not say nothing? I ask myself this all the time.

"Sure," he says over his shoulder.

The apron strings dangling down his ass really are addicting.

~:~

He's in the break room when I'm in the break room, too. I smile as I walk in, moving to the sink to wash my hands. I'm a compulsive hand washer, dealing with food as I do. He has an empty container in front of him. I bet it was French fries.

Maybe it was fried chicken.

Go figure. He makes greasy food attractive. Or perhaps I need help.

_Probably the latter_.

Politics. Stupid, necessary politics rule break room seating. One must never sit near someone else unless friends. Or there's no space. One chair minimum distance.

The break room is horribly empty. I have no choice but to sit away from Deliboy.

I pick a corner with a decent vantage point for creeping, conveniently paired with a newspaper. I sit and read and watch and sip my Brisk Ice Tea.

"So…" his voice is firm and gruff in the silent break room. He still doesn't know my name.

"Yes?"

"How's the – bakery, right?" I nod. "The bakery?"

I'm unsure of how to respond. Whine like a bitch about the greasy pizza buns, or fluff? _Decisions, decisions._ I fluff, because no one likes whiners.

"It's cool. I love all the desserts and stuff." _Stuff._ I'm appalled with my use of the English language. "How's deli?"

"Good."

Of course it's good; they have three people sharing the work. I'm stuck all by my lonesome.

"Can I have the comics?"

He reads comics? Adorable. I'm about to pass them to him, but I won't make it. Short arms, small body and all that.

Whoever said being tiny was delicate was a lying sack of… well, shit.

But that doesn't matter because Edward is up and out of the chair and rounding the square table to me. I pass him the comics, surprised that the paper isn't rustling with my trembling hand.

"Thanks."

I finish my break, my shift, somewhere in the stratosphere.

~:~

Mornings are stupid bitches. Can't we wake up to the afternoon?

I'm here, in this hellish place at seven a.m. to open the damn bakery. And I'm working with fucking Maria.

I had a coffee before I left home, and another one before work in the break room. Now I have to pee.

Maria gives me dirty looks as I dance slightly, wiggling my hips and desperately refusing to think about my need to pee.

My rhythm degenerates by the time I'm filling the bulk bins. I'm dancing and shifting my weight from my right to left foot. I'm shivering, the need to urinate that intense.

"Isabella?" Maria calls from bagging the baguettes. "'Choo hab to go to da batroom? Go! Go!"

I go. I run, my shoes losing purchase slightly as I come around the corner. I slow my pace, knowing that if I fall, I will wet myself.

But I don't have that much time to slow before I'm stopped by someone's chest.

"Ow," the chest says, and fuck me it has to be him.

"Sorry." I turn my face, not wanting him to see my blush.

He rubs the spot my stupid head connected.

"You're in horribly early, too, then?" he asks.

"Yup." I'm about to start wiggling again. God help me if I start my stupid dance.

Everything is stupid. Especially mornings – this morning.

Fuck.

"How busy can deli be this early in the morning? How many people want your salami at seven thirty?"

Your salami? _Your salami_? He coughs, looking to the boxes of soda cans.

"It's okay. Mostly it's just refilling the counter and the salad bars and stuff. And like, restocking the bunkers."

"Cool."

"Cool."

"Excuse me, I have to punch in," he says, already stepping around me. I turn my head back, as usual. Apron strings over his ass, as usual.

~:~

I can't be sure, but I think Deliboy just walked out with one of those taste-testing girls; those really pushy bitches that shove subpar cookies and granola and crackers in the customers' faces.

And everyone knows that walking out with one of them means walking to a car or secluded spot and making out, maybe a hand job.

Yeah, those hookers. And the jealously that bubbles inside me – it does bubble, you know. Like heartburn. Indigestion. I think there's bile climbing up my throat.

And the jealousy, it hurts on its way up. And I'm stupid and annoying (both conclusions I came up myself) and have no right to feel envy.

But it's there. And I hate it.

I flirt with the dopey boy at Dunkin' Donuts, and end up with a free soda.

~:~

"Isabella?" I'm pretty sure pigs just flew because I never expected my name to come out of his mouth. And what a pretty mouth it is.

I try to breathe and talk at the same time; as a result, I cough. He waits, patiently for my goof up to finish. "Yeah?" my voice is raspy and hoarse.

"I'm… about to go on break."

This is unexpected. Really unexpected. And perplexing. Is he asking me to go with him? Am I supposed to go with him?

Why can't he be direct like every other boy I know? He seems, erm, _dumb_ like every other boy.

Maybe it's a ploy to give me an aneurism.

The _fuck_, Edward?

"Cool. I'm almost finished down here. See you soon." Direct and evasive. Slightly.

He nods in response.

"It's… Bella, Edward. I prefer to be called Bella."

"Sweet." He smiles then, and his apple green eyes brighten from underneath the company hat.

It still hurts me to see his pretty penny hair pulled back in a _hair net_ and covered with a cap.

Life just… isn't fair.

I shove the next customer onto Felix, regardless of the fact she needs some writing done.

I run to the Dunkin' Donuts, missing a geriatric and her cart by inches, but receiving her stink eye in buckets.

I go for the Boston Crème, mindful that the crème squirting out looks like… cream squirting out – and a small white milk. And then it's a race again for the break room for my break with Edward.

Who asked me. To go with him. On break. _Together_.

He's there, with the comics laying flat along the table. The news section is beside him. I have to wonder if it's for me.

I also wonder if we're acting like an old couple. We haven't even fucked yet for that to happen.

I suppress a groan, because it's fucking and Edward and with Edward. And _fucking_.

He glances up, a smile on his lips. I move cautiously toward him, sitting in front of the newspaper. Dost mine eyes deceive me? Does his smile grow?

Best break ever. And it was mostly silent.

Christ on a cracker, I need help.

~:~

Afternoon shift. Fucking A.

There's almost nothing to do. Which means whoever's in after me will have almost nothing to do. Which means I can do fuck all now and screw her.

I look to my right. There's a minor tower of flavoured olive oil in my way. Kind of.

He isn't in today, which is kind of too bad. I mean it _is_ bad, but he wasn't there to distract me. In the flesh, at least.

Because in my head, he threw me up against the freezer doors, the oven, inside the fridge, and onto the chrome table and did… things. Delicious things. Sometimes _with_ delicious things. Like the royal icing I used to dress the cinnamon buns.

He liked it. So did I.

By the time I punch out (10 minutes early, because I'm awesome and there's little do to), I revisit my imagination and the royal icing and the chocolate crème used to fill the birthday cakes. I'm not a fan of pudding, but Deliboy was – is.

I take my time walking to the locker room. I even do it on the floor, passing the meat and fish department. It smells disgusting; like raw meat, old fish, ammonia and disinfectant. My nose burns and my eyes begin to water.

"Excuse me, can you please help me?" A bitchy customer; I can tell by her tone – and the way she looks at my glazed eyes with disdain.

"I need two pounds of the fresh ground beef."

"I'm sorry ma'am -"

"And grab it from the front, please. It looks better," she's barreling over me, figuratively. But I'd not be surprised if she runs over me.

"Get it yourself, hooker," is right _there_, on the tip of my tongue, but I don't because I like my job. Mostly.

"Sorry, ma'am, but I don't work in this department. Excuse me while I find someone who does." I smile, and it stretches my cheeks uncomfortably. I should just fucking give up on that.

I step back, mildly disgusted with the liquid covering the floor. I knew there was a reason for everyone wearing rubber boots, and not to look fashionable. It's motherfucking slippery.

"Hello?" I call. Eerily, my voice echoes back to me. I shiver; the metallic tinge to my voice creepy.

"Hey?" Everyone in this department is useless, I decide.

Who was working, who was working? "Jack?" He's a stupid git. There isn't anyone at fish either, or else I'd make them give the woman her damn ground beef.

"Bella?" Of course he'd find me tiptoeing around a strange department with meaty water creeping up my pant legs. Fuck. There's also apple filling in my hair, I'm pretty sure, somehow managing to get under the hair net.

"There's no one here, and that hooker outside wants ground beef." I scowl at the cutting board, a giant, raw… something lying there bloody and gross. "What the fuck? Disgusting. And besides, I'm punched out and I'm all finished. And Jack's a douche nozzle."

"I'll deal with her."

I think my eyes widen, and they probably bug out, too. "Really? You'd do that for me?"

"Sure." He shrugs. "I mean you're off the clock and all. And Jack _is_ a douche nozzle. He shouldn't fuckin' take off like that."

I'm stuck on him shrugging. The stupid baker's jacket we both wear is baggy on the shoulders, but when he moves them like that, he fills out the excess fabric nicely. Very nicely.

"Thanks, Edward." For reasons unknown to me, I blush. I feel the heat flooding in my cheeks and I just know I'm an ugly red colour.

"No problem. I'll punch him for the both of us."

He smiles.

I float.

A good day, all in all.

~:~

"So, Bella." Edward is there, in the opening between the cakes and the commercial bread, about to voyage into bakery chaos.

I hold up one finger, the universal symbol for _wait a fucking minute_. I'm not mad at him, but at the idiots in my department. So much work… can't function.

Well, I can barely function. Breathing is on the wayside.

I write on the cake with teal icing, the colour horribly at odds with the orange and red. I grimace at the combination. I hold the cake up for the customer's approval. Edward glances, and stops. "Nice, Bella."

"Thank you." I glow. The customer nods and waits as I box it up. I know for a fact that I wouldn't have given a fuck had the customer not liked it. Edward does, and that's all that matters.

"Have a good night." I smile; it's really because Edward is around. There's less of a twinge in my cheeks. Maybe I'm getting the hang of it.

"What's up?" I lean up against the counter, my back to any potential customers. I don't care, though. Not really.

"Not much. Wanna go on break?"

I look at all the work I have to do. Buns to pack, bread to slice, mini Danishes to cover with snow sugar. And clean the outside. And the inside. And it's 7:30.

I frown. "No, sorry. There's too much shit to do."

He studies the bakery too, a calculating look in his eye. "I'll help."

What a sweet guy, but he's got his own stuff to do. And as I point this out to him, he shakes his head.

"Nah, don't worry about it. Emmett and Lauren can deal."

I need the help. And they can't spare a cashier up front. And I want Edward around. "Sure, thank you so much." Relief courses through me – warm and tingly.

I have him pack buns. And then pack the outside buns. While I study his.

Not the ones he packs, but his ass. I like it.

I slice bread while he packs my Danishes.

I'm thinking of my vag (God, what an ugly term) right now. I wonder if he'd be opposed to packing those Danishes.

We work together and Edward is a quick study. He picks up his tasks easily, leaving me to focus on the shit I need to complete.

As he sweeps outside, all hovered over the broom handle, I look at his figure – really look.

His torso is long, arms long, legs long. I like his shape. He makes lean look athletic and not gangly, which tends to happen with people like him.

Then I look at my reflection in the glass doors of the counter. Brown; hair and eyes. Pale skin, even in the yellow light. The jacket hides my decent shape – if I do say so myself – but the apron pulls it tight around my waist. I angle my body slightly, enjoying the view. I can't help but pop my hip, jutting my ass out into the world.

My ass enjoys itself.

I finish up inside; he comes in, carrying a dustpan I missed him picking up (damn) and the broom.

I finish on time because of his help.

"Thank you so much!" I want to hug him… I want to kiss him and tackle him to the ground. But I settle for what's about to be a high five, but who the fuck does that? So I let my hand hang for a smidge, then drop it.

Yeah, that is so much better. Christ.

"You're welcome, Bella." He smiles.

And then Edward surprises me, because that's what he does. He always shocks me, and most times it's in the best way possible.

He leans over and kisses me. He has to bend a lot, actually, but it's nice.

His lips are smooth and warm. Dry too, because he doesn't lick them a lot or anything.

Opening. There is lip opening. And tongue. It slips inside. It's mellow like he is. I think I orgasm. I shuffle closer, trying not to break the kiss, but it's impossible. He'd have to snap his neck in order to let it continue.

So instead he cradles my head to my chest. "That was nice."

Nice? Nice? Angels sung! Birds chirped! Flowers are growing around us now!

Nice. I chalk it up to guys not being poetic and leave it at that. I nod into his sternum because it's _right there_, and kind of eww, but I feel the bone through his clothes.

~:~

We aren't scheduled together again for a while. I don't how to look at that except that I have horrible luck, and it seems to be rubbing off on him.

And I'm a horny idiot because I didn't ask for his number. I was in a stupor, more or less, because his wiry body was so close to me. And it wasn't even because I walked into him. That time.

I've work three shifts since the kiss. And I even managed to find an excuse to come into work on my off days, just to see him.

Four days equals feta cheese, Maple Leaf premade bacon, egg whites and yolks (bought separated. I'm not describing an egg in two parts), and quinoa.

He's there on Feta Day and Quinoa Day. Edward beams, I smile in return and stumble into the pasta bar. The spoon flipped up onto my chest.

Oil is difficult to get out of one's clothing. But he laughed and I sucked in my embarrassment.

~:~

Edward's starting, as I'm finishing.

How do I prepare myself for the Outside? I rid myself of the nasty apron, and the formless baker's jacket. I stand in front of the mirror, painstakingly trying to remove the hairnet and not damage the hair. Because every time my hair cooperates I work.

Hairnets are the bane of _hair's_ existence. They squash a style, crush curls, and flatten out poofs. Hair becomes knotted and gross once emerged from the dreaded net.

It takes me a while, extricating my hair from the net of doom and I hate how my head turns out afterward.

My hair lacks oomph.

I miss all the oomph it had before I came here. And I'm self conscious enough for Edward to see me with pretty hair not these… lank noodles. And it's the disgusting whole grain pasta. It looks as a bad as it tastes, and it tastes _horrible_.

"Hey, Bella."

Christ. I try to hide my head, throwing my arms around the empty melon.

It's a melon and it's pretty damn empty – why else would I do _that_? I think I may break universal Internet code and face palm in the flesh.

"Edward," I mumble.

"I think your hair is really pretty." I see him behind me, looking down with profound honesty. I melt and sigh and gush.

He's making me into a marshmallow. "Are you lying to me?"

Edward has the type of smile that makes me want to smile. But instead, I peak out between my fingers, especially when I feel a slight tugging at my arms.

"The best hair I've ever seen."

And then he touches it – from root to the tip, slowly, softly. He sighs, and I feel it whisper in my hair, brushing my scalp softly.

I'm the marshmallow guy-thing from Ghostbusters.

~:~

"I missed you, too," I say, the grin stretching my face natural. It doesn't hurt so much.

"I'm excited for tonight."

"So am I."

"Don't you want to know where we're going?"

Kind of, actually. He refuses to let me go home and change. So of course, this is the day there is coloured icing all over my ass.

"Nope." I pull at my jacket, suddenly self conscious of the rainbow on my bum.

"I like the blue. And the pink. And the purple. The orange? Not so much." Edward looks over, reaches over and pats my ass gently.

"I'm glad you approve." I'm glad I have extra clothes and shoes shoved in my locker.

"Bella?"

"Edward?"

"I can't wait to kiss you after this shift."

My knees quake. I lean over the chrome table, my chest dangerously close to the lemon meringue pies. "Same here, Deliboy."

"I like it when you call me that, you know."

"Good."

He's silent a while, watching me package these stupid lemon meringue pies. Meringue creeps me the fuck out. It's unnatural and fluffy and _weird_.

"Bella? I have to go back now." He pouts adorably.

"Edward? There's no one watching."

He moves from his lurking spot beside the ovens and turns me around. Edward's hands are on my waist, his lips on my jaw, their upward descent evident.

He tastes like the buttercream icing he ate straight from the tub earlier.

~:~

"A few more minutes, Bella." He pulls me into his lap further and grinds me against his erection. It feels good for both of us, I can tell.

"But… we don't have much longer, Edward! Someone could, ohhhh." His tongue has found my neck, while his hands have lost my neck. I consider it breaking even.

And then his fingers have found my buttons. My uniform's buttons, not my, erm, love buttons. Ugh. Love makes me stupid.

And then his fingers are on my breasts, dragging back and forth over the satin and lace. Because, yes, I do wear good bras to work, where they will be sweated in, filled with breadcrumbs and apparently, groped.

I think it's the final reason I wear them. No… no, I _know_.

"Bella, I love your tits." He groans, and rubs his nose on my sternum. He places a kiss on either side.

He slips a hand down my stomach. I love the feeling of the feather light touches, sending tingles down to my Danish.

And then he rubs through my stiff cotton pants on my clit. I'm a goner. I grind against him harder, and feel his erratic thrusts upwards.

I kiss him – a long, wet and sloppy kiss, hoping it'll send him over the edge.

It doesn't occur to me he'll be working with jizzy boxers.

My name is a long groan from his mouth.

I think it'll be a good shift, tonight.

~:~:~:~

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed this! Deliward is so sweet, right? I work in a bakery – the tasks and some of the rants were definitely inspired by my job. Is there a Deliward where I work? No. No ogling, unless it's a customer and that's just weird! Lol.

The sappy moment: I've been around these parts for forever, basically. We've done good things, different things and bad things. I've made some of my closest friends through this fandom. And for that, I'd forgive it/us almost anything.

Self pimpage: I'll be entering the Season of our Discontent Anonymous Angst Contest. The entries are not for the faint of heart. My heart breaks with every new one shot. I love it. Please check out the contest; just make sure you're equipped with a cuddle army and something _strong_ to drink.

Tell me what you thought of Over the Counter.

Thanks, VE.


	2. Prequel: Staring Straight Ahead

**Over the Counter Prequel: Staring Straight Ahead**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the _Twilight Saga_. No copyright infringement is intended

I'm pretty sure my bra is trying to amputate my arm. It's digging in, _right there_, with every swoop of the bread – fast enough that no slices flip-flop off – before it's shoved in the bag. I'm pretty sure I feel blood oozing down my back. I feel my bra cutting through muscle and tendon soon.

And I'm not even done cutting bread. I'll never be done. There's enough carbs on one silver rack to feed a third world country. Maybe two.

It doesn't help that breadcrumbs are filling my bra, and I just want to scratch the crap out of my boobs. I feel sunflower seeds and oats there, too. I just want to go home now.

Actually, I wanted to go home before I even left for work. I hate it here. It's boring and annoying and I've developed an allergy to people. Sadly, no amount of epinephrine can help me.

Grain and raisins and wheat – oh my! If I ever see a flax seed again, it will be too soon. The little brown fuckers look like ants to the undiscerning – daydreaming – bakery clerk.

A customer – what a nasty type of human – comes as I'm stomping on would-be insects. One part fear, two parts temper tantrum fuel my mad stepping. I'm side-eyed and questioned silently, but I don't care. It's better than adjusting my brassiere, which happened minutes before he appeared.

He's quite the creepy fucker. Dirty beard, frazzled, pube-like hair and milky eyes. He's rotund in a gross way (not that I hate), but in that "I live in my mother's basement and play WoW twenty-three hours a day" way. He has serious Zac-breath (when your mouth smells 'zactly like your ass) and I smell it all the way over the counter. I wonder idly if it could curdle the whipped topping. I'm listening enough to gather he's looking for bread, and did I have some?

Sarcasm is not the answer. It does not put Dominick's at the top for its reputable customer service. But I want so badly to answer, yes, I suppose I do have some bread, considering it _is_ a bakery. Instead, I point to his motherfucking right, where there's a _wall_ of bread. He lingers at the counter for a moment, his stanky breath for two. I'm so disgusted I could puke.

The dude in fish is looking over, head cocked to the side and studying my customer. He gives me the sympathy nod and continues descaling salmon or whatever.

I sell a bunch of cupcakes to two cute kids; they make me not hate my job so much. And when they ever so sweetly ask to have a cookie, I go ahead and tell them to take two because they were baked fresh that afternoon.

Maybe it was that morning, but still. Fresh cookies in the cookie jar are rare.

I finish on time, considering it's a Saturday night, and the bakers get stupid-busy with the amount of crap they make.

It's nine-oh-one when I walk out of Dominick's, the late-night cashiers giving me that envious look.

It feels so good to be finished with this place for another night.

~:~

I'm trying to enjoy my morning. But at the ass crack of dawn, listening to coworkers whine about other coworkers is not helpful on only two cups of coffee and spit for breakfast.

That, and all these undercooked croissants look delicious. And I can't have any, not even one. Not even a crumb… er, flake.

I should try to survive mornings in this place on a little more. Spit can only get you so far.

I yawn more than usual, and the coworker from hell, Maria, is quick to notice and jab – "choo hab a lay night with a boy?"

Why is it a late night with a _boy_? It's like she's rubbing my pitiful love life in my face. It hurts. I decide not to answer, instead focusing all my attention on these crusty rolls.

"I see," she mumbles.

I'm rather exasperated that she's trying to steal my bitchy thunder. I'm tempted to tell her I was with a _girl_, doing _things_, instead of the truth – which was a pile of Nora Roberts, sex scenes only. _Fuck yeah, missionary_.

"I stayed up reading a good book_._"

"I hoos to read lots."

I nod and _mmhmm_ and _uh-huh_ when she takes a breath, catching every other vaguely English word to figure out that she was, in fact, studying to be an engineer in Mexico, before she was knocked up.

My boss is in, the dickface. He's picking on everyone: giving orders, swiping at people, giving more, conflicting orders. I mostly just ignore him.

And then I totally ignore him when he makes a comment about phones and boyfriends. What kind of fumes do the ovens give off?

The pinnacle of the early morning occurs when I have to write "Happy Shave Day" in pink for someone named Dave. It's at eight o'clock, and the chick asking for the cake looks like Jersey Shore cast member. I forgive her overly tan looks and cow-chewing-cud method of attacking her gum because the cake is just hilarious. I giggle through the rest of the preparation work, in time for some of my favourite things: Danishes, garlic bread, cream cheese muffins and hot cross buns. While the first three include hands-on, dirty and disgusting work, hot cross buns are mostly gross because of the candied fruit.

"I need you to fill up the assorted bun bins, Bella." He snorts at his alliteration.

"Sure thing, Alec." _I hope something heavy falls on you_.

Maria used the shittiest ten-rack available. A wheel is smaller than the others; one of them has a hair net or something caught in the axle. It takes all of my upper body strength to make it go, and my entire body to make it stop. Usually, by stepping in front of it.

I don't escape such a moment when a wild baby carriage is pushed in front of me. I'm only vaguely aware of the possible accident before I feel the edgy frame dig into my back.

Something falls on my head. I wince, tears coming to my eyes without my say so. The stay-at-home dad and the baby roll away, none the wiser, while I sniffle and fill the stupid baskets.

Sometimes, I just hate it so much here; it festers and burns my throat like the acidic sting of vile.

It's painful, sometimes, to be at Dominick's.

~:~

Senior year is in complete parts boring and nerve-wracking. I have to deal with stupid things like prom, graduation, college applications, my life, and my future.

It's in those moments of emotional and mental distress that working at Dominick's is _okay_, because it's safe. When everything else in my life crumbles, I know I have the comfort of slicing bread and icing cinnamon buns as a fall back career. I'm hoping to get a promotion – one day – that will make me Bella Swan: cake decorator.

I can already cut and fill cakes like a pro.

I'm studying for a test and looking at school brochures when Angela slides into a chair across from me – and then almost slides out of it.

"We cool?"

"Sure," I reply, snorting. She works in fish. She smells like scales.

"Stupid anti-slip, grip shoes."

"Suuure."

"What are you looking at?" I pass her the brochure, and stick up the textbook. There's a beaker and some blue foamy stuff spilling out of it.

"You took chem?"

"Needed a science to graduate. I like it." I don't say that it's more math than anything in grade twelve and I'm beginning to hate it.

It's the kind of class that makes a paper-cut on your eyeball appealing.

"What are your plans for next year?"

"Staying yokel. You?"

"Probably heading to the big city. That's the plan, anyway."

I think of her parents, pulling her out of private school and sticking them into the hell of public education (just for the hell of it) and making her work. I think of her new car and spiffy Blackberry, and know that New York won't break her bank.

"You gonna keep your job with this fine establishment?" I know the managers sometimes let students keep their job, so long as they work once a month or something.

"I don't even know. Maybe?"

I'm keeping my job. I'll be working here forever.

"We have time. It's only January."

I flip through my chemistry book, confusing my Halogens with my Inert Elements. Well, I think I am.

I take a break on my break – studying the cheesy-happy faces of students that were probably so poor, they were glad to accept the non-payment payment to smile in a place they hate. The University of Chicago's campus is lovely – much more attractive than Northwestern's, I think. It's near and in the city, but it doesn't feel that way. I can commute, which is fucking awesome.

I finish both my breaks at the same time, when Felix – my breakout boy – stomps up the stairs, begging me to deal with a customer.

The customer is red-faced and pimply. I'm pretty sure it's a fifteen-year-old boy, trying to impress his girlfriend's parents.

I dislike him on the spot. And when he asks for the cannoli, I grab him three with the skimpiest filling.

He doesn't say thank you when I'm finished waiting on him. I don't say, "have a goodnight." He doesn't deserve it.

Sometimes, I think I'm petulant and whiny. Sometimes, I think I'm jaded. Mostly, I just think I need to get the fuck out of here, for my wellbeing.

~:~

I've been invited to a work-related birthday dinner. Apparently, Jessica up in Front End talked about me a lot. So here I am, sitting in this dinghy Pickle Barrel with _work people_.

They're all cashiers. I don't know why I'm here, really. I feel like an outsider.

I go to school with Irina; I stick to her like used gum. She's quiet, shy. Very nice. We talk and we whisper, and that's when I find out that she's an even bigger gossip than Jessica.

"People are gonna be moving around in March or April."

"What do you mean?" Maybe I can get that cake decorating position. Maybe I can get out of bakery.

"Yeah. I think some department managers are about to be shuffled around in the district. And there will be promotions – maybe demotions! – and new hires. I think it's because a new store's opening up."

"New hires?"

"Yeah. Expect lots of new faces here. Apparently, the manager at the new store gets to pick who he wants. It doesn't sound fair, but who knows?"

"Maybe Shelley will go."

"I hope so. She's a wicked bitch." Irina giggles at her curse.

"Right? I remember this time I started cleaning early – I had a lot to do, you know? And she chewed me out for doing that, and then I ended up staying until 11:30."

"I _hate_ her."

Jessica comes around the table, hugging people as she goes.

"Bella! Thank you so much for coming!"

"Thanks for having me, Jessica," I reply.

She presses my head into her chest. She smells of Bounce and Eau de Desperate Older Woman. _Unattractive_.

"Guess what I heard?" Jessica whispers

Irina and I both perk up.

"Bella, this mostly pertains to you. _Your _manager –" she says it like he's my possession "– is dating Marcus's mother!"

I'm so disgusted. "But – what – yuck."

"Gross." Irina wrinkles her nose, shaking her head.

Alec has chode fingers.

"_Yes_." Jessica's eyes gleam as she shares. "It's why he's allowed to get away with as much shit as he does."

He's such a turd. I always wondered why no one fired his ass. I _know_ he spends half his shifts smoking outside. And he can get away with it because he bones someone's mother? I hope their family dinners are awkward as fuck.

I hope Jessica likes the gift I got her – a gift card to Dominick's. It was that, or an iTunes one, and I'm pretty sure she thinks computers are from the devil.

"What's up on the dating front for you, Bella?"

I think Jessica thinks she's a maternal figure for me or something. Maybe a big sister. I have no idea what planet she's coming from, but every time she asks a personal question like that, I cringe. What the hell is going on in her head?

I bet it's all that cash she deals with. It smells after a while. It's affected her brain.

"Nothing, Jess."

"Lonely?"

_One way of putting it_. "Yup." 

"What a shame. You're a cutie. Just wait, okay? The boy for you is out there."

"Okay." _Sure? I guess?_ I try to smile to make up for my lame response, but it hurts after a few seconds. It's worrying.

"She's really weird with you," Irina whispers as Jessica moves down the table.

"Right? Freaks me out. But she gives good gossip."

"That she does."

~:~

Working on or near a holiday always sucks donkey's balls. But working Valentine's Day, at night, with people getting last minute gifts? It is the single most painful thing in the world.

I hate it.

And if another person asks me to write "Happy Valentine's" or "Be mine, Valentine" or some other Hallmark bullshit, I will smash a fucking cake in someone's face.

I'm not bitter, I'm not jealous. I'm bored. I'm busy. I'm stressing.

There's so much to do. There are a million muffins to do, plus Kaisers and pizza buns. Alec the idiot never thinks the store will be as busy as it is, and I'm stuck with everything.

I'm also pretty sure that last loaf of bread I had to slice filled my bra up with crumbs. I _hate_ that feeling.

"Hi, I'd like a flan, please." He's kinda good-looking. Just a smidge too short. At lease I have good daydreaming and fantasy material, now.

"Would you like any writing done with it?" I smile, or try to. My lips sting, and my cheeks try to flatten it.

"That would be nice, thanks. 'Happy Valentine's Day, bunny', please." He checks his phone twice while he says it.

"Would you rather have a sign?" I hold of the Tupperware container, filled with every type of Valentine saying and cliché. _Please pick a sign_, _please pick a sign_.

"Do you mind writing it? 'Bunny' is something special to us." He's sliding the screen up and down, up and down.

My hand twitches. "Sure thing."

I decide he isn't that hot, after all. And_ bunny_ is a loser pet name. Very unoriginal.

I write his message in the ugliest colour I can find, this putrid yellow that looks more vomit than mustard.

He doesn't even care. He just fiddles with his phone, clearly waiting for his Bunny.

I don't say, "have a nice night" because he doesn't say, "thank you".

It's when I'm outside and on the floor, cleaning up the assorted buns when I see big-breasted Kate.

Nice to know I'm not the only lonely sucker working Valentine's Night.

I bet she has a date with her boobs and some strawberries. I, for one, will be spending the night with chocolate brownie cheesecake. And pilfered booze. My parents are on a date.

Its nights like these when my solo pity parties spurn lovely fantasies of a Bella Swan life free of Dominick's. And it's those hours after a tough shit, when I'm cramming homework and studying and sanity, to balance it all that makes me want to leave.

I want to leave.

~:~

Shelley's taking a new group of untainted, future employees of Dominick's around. Those poor bastards.

I don't dwell, because I know they don't affect me in the least. I'm still here, and they will soon share in my misery.

I'm too busy surviving.

I'm not alone tonight, which is fucking wonderful. I'm with Felix and Jane, the lovely cake decorator. It's an okay night. There are jokes at Felix's expense, few customers and little work. I practice my cut'n'fill techniques for Jane. I make vanilla cakes my bitch.

"Oh, dude, you missed it." Felix is close to the swinging doors as I come in the bakery; I clip him with the edge.

"What?"

"Shelley brought the newbs around. Like pigs to the slaughter house or whatever."

"Poetic."

"Shut up," he laughs.

I punch him in the arm. He laughs again, shakes his head and goes up to the front to piss off Jane.

It's not until I'm pulling off the reduced items when Felix comes up to me with a racecar ring.

"You're a dork."

He doesn't respond, but goes back to breaking frozen bread out of their boxes, and loading up trays for tomorrow morning. Felix is sweet, but two years younger. Not. Happening. Even if he towers over me by about two feet.

I dance while I package up the bread. I laugh out loud when the produce doors swing inwards and bounce almost all the way out off of Kate's boobs.

I don't even mind when an older couple ask me where the crumpets are, even though we're standing in front of them. Their reactions are adorable. I smile as they wish me goodnight, and it doesn't hurt that much. I wonder if my issue is serious. Or even if it's an issue, at all.

Angela comes upstairs with me when I'm done. We giggle and gossip and she chews me out for not sharing the news I learned. She smacks me upside the head, to which I return with a punch in the arm.

"Seriously, why didn't you tell me? If there's someone who hates Shelley as much as you, it's me."

Shelley _is_ leaving. Her training those newcomers is like her parting gift. _Ugh_.

"I didn't know if it was true or not. I didn't want to get your hopes up, okay?" Truthfully, I had pretty much forgotten that; I was too busy moping.

We're coming into the break room when he's coming out. And he is beautiful.

He's tall and lean and has this mess of copper-wire hair – curly and chaotic. His eyes are apple green and light, the clear focus of his head. Nice face – gorgeous face. Perfect face.

"Hey, I'm Angela." She goes up to him, hand outstretched. I'm still stuck at the door, the knob digging into my back.

"Edward."

"New, right?"

"Yeah. I'm in deli."

Deli. _Deli_. Salami. I work with buns.

We're basically making sandwiches, and he doesn't even know my name.

"Cool. I'm in fish. You're better off, dude."

He chuckles, clearly nervous. I am too, but probably for different reasons. "I gotta go. It was nice meeting you."

"Bye, Edward. Good luck here." She smiles.

"Bye," I say to the closed door.

"You're a loser." Angela shakes her head.

"Me? You were getting your flirt on, and you've got a boyfriend!"

"I wasn't stunned stupid."

"Shut up."

She shakes her head again, but leaves me alone.

He was… it was magical. Beautiful. How could I possibly leave now, when a reason to stay has brought itself to me?

The attraction is powerful – one-sided, doomed to heartbreak, but powerful. We are going to make _sandwiches_. Probably mostly in my head, but it's going to happen.

Edward, who works in deli. A boy, in deli. Deliboy.

I can put up with any shit, because I know there's his face to look forward to.

I have a reason to stay now.

~:~

**Endnotes:** Thanks to the organizers of this event. It was a lovely and amazing thing they did. Much love and hugs to my beta, jadedandboring and to my prereader shelikesthesound – they made the OtC prequel pretty and ready for the compilation :)

I'm working on a few things. Hopefully, I'll be participating in a compilation soon. Check my twitter and my profile for updates, in the off chance you're interested. See you later X


	3. Fish Lips, a futuretake

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the _Twilight Saga_; no copyright infringement is intended.

**A/N:** Hi. I wasn't expecting this. It's pretty random. Enjoy a look into Deliboy and Bella's future. See you at the bottom for a longer A/N. Thanks to acinadisme for prereading. It's unbeta'd.

**Fish Lips**

It's so boring tonight. The store is dead, I'm finished early (much to my surprise) and I've already shaken out my bra and apron – I found a breadcrumb (chunk?) the size of a quarter. Gross.

I've walked around the department, prettying up the shelves and ordering the Bread Wall a bunch of times and now I'm. Just. So. Bored.

I wish Edward were here. We could go and kiss and stuff (_stuff_) in the freezer. Or fridge. Or maybe in the tiny getaway created by the Tasting Ladies' cabinet and moving cash register. It's less cold there. And I know how Edward's ass reacts to the cold.

I spend a good fifteen minutes "tidying" up some wax bags and thinking about stuff in the hideaway. Two people stuff. _Deliboy_ stuff. X-rated, Deliboy stuff.

"Excuse me?" _No._ "Can I get some help?" _Definitely not._

"Hi." My smile pulls at my cheeks and twists my lips into a snarl, I'm pretty sure. I catch my reflection in the counter's sliding glass and grimace. I look deranged. The customer thinks so too; I can tell because she takes a step back.

I stop smiling. "How can I help you?"

"I'd like the mocha cake. Can I have something written on it?"

Praise Jesus! We don't have any chocolate, and when I tell her so, she pouts most awkwardly. Her butt-chin looks like it has four cheeks instead of two. _Gross_. "We have little happy birthday signs I can stick on the cake?" _Up your nose, too?_

"Sure, sure." She waves her hand.

"We have blue, yellow, purple, pink and green."

"Whatever you think will look best."

I'm no Martha Stewart, but these colours suck and nothing looks good with _mocha_. I pick green mostly because it's gender neutral and the Happy Pouter (paradox ignored) didn't specify. I huff as I box the cake and wish her a goodnight.

I decide to close the lights and walk around the store. I don't really care if someone's looking for help in the bakery – I have twenty minutes left and I'll not spend them cleaning the same three surfaces.

Produce is… producey. It smells fruity and asparagus-y and faintly like wax. The tiny sprinklers mist the food stuck in the coolers. I check out bulk, where I'm sorely tempted to grab a bunch of gummy bears and eat them while I explore the store. At night time.

But I mostly, kind of, like this job, and stealing is bad. Even when I need food for my adventure.

Customers ask me for help every so often. I'm pretty much clueless as to where the crap is, like canned cheeseburgers and real truffles, but I manage to find them. Except for the cheeseburgers, which I gagged at when the stoner asked for them.

Munchies must be a bitch.

I complete my circle of the grocery store by finishing with Seafood. The fish entrance me. The lobsters are cute and stuff, but the fish are dopey and stupid. I'm so ridiculously entertained I'm really just ashamed.

These fish just look back at me with their tiny black eyes, watching me as I take two steps to the left, two to the right. I wiggle in front of them and they move up and down in their tank.

I end up just putting my pen to the thick glass and dragging it back and forth. The fish (I think they're halibut or cod or something) follow the blue dot diligently, their bodies pressing forward, trying to be closest to the glass and the magic blue dot. I'm moving closer to the tank, too.

The blue pen really is captivating.

The watery, pungent smell of all things _fish_ doesn't even bother me while I play with my new friends.

I realize two things simultaneously: fish are not friends, despite what Bruce said in _Finding Nemo_ and I've been here too damn long to consider them as such.

Fish really are just food.

I step away, still staring at the fish staring at me and back into someone.

"Jesus, Bella."

I like it when he says my name, all exasperated. It gets me going.

"Edward." I turn around and snuggle into his chest. He smells clean and boy-like in his Super Mario t-shirt, unlike the scent of his smelly-deli work shirt. I wrinkle my nose at the thought. He smells like rancid BO when he works.

It makes the fish smell slightly more appealing.

But his t-shirt still wins on the best-smelling list.

"How was your night?" His lips brush my hairnet.

"Long. Boring. I missed you."

"Same," he says.

"Hi." He tips my chin back, looking down at me. His voice is gravelly and deep.

"Hey."

Edward-kisses are unparalleled. They affect me right down to my feet so that I'm tingly and shivery all throughout. His lips know my lips, know my body. And my body know his lips and how to react to them. I lean into his chest, my hands moving from his waist to his shoulders. His hands move from hips to ass and back. Edward tastes like apple pie and peppermint, the two flavours surprisingly alluring mixed together.

Maybe it's just because it's Edward and he – his mouth – can do no wrong.

"Your new friends are staring at us."

It takes my Edward-fizzled brain to understand. "Really."

"I think they like it."

"Fish are voyeurs?"

"You didn't know?"

"You're a total dork, Edward."

"Hey, Bella."

"Yeah?"

"You missed the punch clock."

At least I won't swipe my badge incorrectly. "Fuck."

**Endnotes:** So, yeah, I finally went and changed my lame pen name to my twitter handle. Let's all be relieved we don't know a "Vampire Extraordinaire" *cringes* and I'm no longer... Bleh. Anyways. Exciting news: The Prequel (a time before Deliboy) is in the Fandom for No Kid Hungry compilation. Yay! I'll be posting it here as an additional chapter around July 22nd.

This peek into the future brought to you by the two people I saw macking by the fish tonight at work. Thanks for that.


	4. Handprints, a futuretake

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the _Twilight Saga_; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Handprints**

It started with that stupid bell. Loud and startling, the bell that lets bakery peons—like myself—know a delivery is in, rang. It's an old school bell, sounding more like a fire alarm than something in an upscale grocery store. I may or may not have dropped some cheese sticks.

And then Felix _had_ to go and get Edward to help him unload the skids of flour. _And then_, I had to work instead of watch his arm muscles work and imagine what his back muscles look like.

I'm dealing with customers when my mind is filled with Edward and his buns. Because, apparently, ginormous bags of flour are incapable of staying sealed and then flour spills out. _And_, flour sticks to sweaty hands. Do I know how boys unflour their slippery hands? I didn't before, but I do now.

_They wipe their hands on their ass_. I mean, seriously. I can see perfect fingers and palms, white, ghostly imprints on Edward's buns.

I want those to be _my_ hands.

But, since it's my job, and _I guess_ I'm supposed to be working, I do. I deal with ickle people, give (sometimes literally) snotty children free cookies. I deal with deli people looking for Edward, and tell them he's busy.

He is. He and Felix each heft a sack of flour over their shoulders, place them on their designated shelf, and stand around for five minutes discussing whatever Cubs (White Sox?) game. They're _bros_. Edward looks over at me, I can feel it. But he doesn't move, doesn't come say hi, doesn't _do anything_.

Except, he does wipe his hands on his ass some more.

I yank on my collar, lift my apron off. It's too damn hot.

I'm nearing my breaking point when a couple of women come by. They're looking at cakes, salivating over the newly cleaned glass, and complaining about sugar, calories, and - I don't know-their pool boys or something. But I also see them glance up, past me and at the two young men bending and lifting and, God help me, _wiping_.

And then it's not the glass they're drooling over. It's _Edward_; probably Felix too, but seriously. _Edward_. My Deliboy. I don't try to practice my snarl-cum-smile, but let my twisted face do its job—or try to. I think my smile is unbroken.

"Can I help you with anything?" These new lights make me squint, but I try to make it look menacing and ferocious.

"Can I see the ingredients list for this cake?" she asks, pointing to the Belgian chocolate cake. _Are you fucking kidding me_?

"Sure thing, ma'am." I pivot as soon as I see her scowl. I _knew_ she's the type of hooker who doesn't like being called, "ma'am."

"Fuck you, ma'am," I mutter as I yank our copy of_ The Giant Book of Ingredients Conveniently Out Of Order, Always_ from above the microwave. Meanwhile, the cougars are checking Edward out some more.

The force of my pulling has me thrown back and into the steel table, which digs itself happily into my hips.

It takes me a while to find the cake she needs, but I hand her the page, biting my tongue and both my lips, to prevent myself from saying, "it's fucking Belgian chocolate. You know, the good shit, _ma'am_."

They end up not getting the cake. Cool.

As I move the book back to its resting place, I hear Edward grunt every so often. Felix left to do whatever he does when he's not working—probably smoke up. With no distractions, Edward's toiling away, bending and moving and wiping and I just can't help it.

I stick my hands in the convenient pile of flour, not yet brushed to the ground to be swept up later. I rub it in a bit, making sure there's plenty of flour to go around—and _on_.

I slip in front of Edward and the skid. "Hi."

"Hey." His hands move around my waist and settle on my bottom, and I know, _just know_, that his handprints will be left there. He bends for a quick kiss.

And that's when my own hands move to his ass.

They land and they squeeze and they rub, so that I leave some handprints of my own.

~:~

Howdy. Another random. This time, the inspiration came from the (good looking) new guy. Thanks, new guy. No handprints of my own were left. Sigh.

One million thanks to Pagly for editing this hookah and making it presentable. Thanks, P.

SELF PIMPAGE OF THE WORST KIND (or is there only one kind?): I'm working on a multi-chapter fic called, _Push the Sun_. Summary: Love and loss are inexorable. To prevent them is as futile and hopeless as pushing the sun. It's a mystery and romance with some supernatural stuff. I tease (for "motivation") every once in a while over on The Fictionators.

Thanks for reading, guys. See you 'round.


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